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Yet live! for thou must errand bring
That shall the pagan

draw Unto the new-discovered King

Who gives the islands law.

Up! seek thee OBOOKIAH’s land,

There's toil, and men are few; Dispersed is superstition's band,

And broke the fell tabu.

Away-wrung out is Pe-le's cup,

Her altar's light is dim; And where her song and shout went up,

Thou’lt hear the children's hymn.

Up both! and from this infant soil

This land, but late possest, Go forth to oriental climes,

The first fruits of the West.

Exil'd from us for Jesus' sake,

Ere yet, for time, ye part,
To climb the mission-vessel, take

The farewell of the heart.

Yet how may she that farewell give?

This hour live all the past-
Or he, whose sands are well nigh run

Take that sad look, the last?

Ye may not watch her final pang

Who watched your boyhood's bloom; That aged sire-ye may not lay

His gray hairs in the tomb.

Enough, enough, a hand unseen,

Waves onward to the prize; They know that their Redeemer lives,

And this may well suffice.

'Tis done-in yon horizon now,

Where she sails on, a speck;
A cloud of heaven-directed prayer

Is wafted o'er that deck.

Propitious breezes fill the sails!

O God of mercy, keep
Yon richly freighted ship that rides

In stateliness the deep;

Bearing from hearth and sepulchre,

Those holy names and high-The men that hear but to obey

The Macedonian cry;

That calls to perils, calls afar

To suffering, shame and loss; Yet points to that immortal star,

Which shines above the cross.


“Do the Disciples in America drink Spirits?'-Wade's Speech.

Men, crossing the blue wave, have told

To Burmah of the God that first Spake out this starry world of old,

To whom the stars and worlds are dust.

His voice is to us—we obey,

Nor fear contempt or shame, or loss; Once proudly vile, we joy to lay

Glory and pride beneath the cross.

We'll bear reproaches for His sake,

Who for poor Burmans died; and we Will freely persecution take,

For Him, whose blood hath stained the tree.

Yet the reproach how may we meet,

That spots religion's lovely robe, And lifts an idol to the seat

Of Him that grasps and guides the globe?

For far beyond the Indian sea,

Where heaven lets down unwonted light, His purchased followers give the knee

Unto the spirit-fiend of night.

Our hearts for God!-yet while we doubt

And fear, like those, to yield him up,

Around us rings the scornful shout,

“Do yon disciples kiss the cup?"

“Yea, do yon Christians fondly reach

The goblet to a sealed lip;
What powerful Boodh durst never teach,

What Paganism may not sip?”

Men of the clime where truth has trod,

Earth’s glittering falsehood to condemn; Tell us!—seek they another God,

Is not Jehovah help to them?


The tale here versified, is from Mrs. Virginia Cary's letters.

Two brothers, once, of merry mood,

Were sporting in their simple play; When chafed and furious from the wood,

A Lion roared against his prey.

Between them and the help they claimed,

Was interposed a lofty wall;
And hark! beyond it, each is named-

It is the anxious father's call:

“0, children, haste! ye shall not fail
Of safety, with your sire and friend,”

“ Folly” said one, “for us to scale

Yon stones, which men can scarce ascend.

“ See you not that so rough the path,

So high the wall, its topmost stone Ere we could gain, the beast, in wrath

Might rend and break us bone by bone?

“I,” said the other, come what may,

Will not despise our father's call; 'Tis safest always to obey,

I'll strive to climb yon lofty wall."

He ran, and saw, when drawing nigh,

A ladder reaching from its height; Safe now, he turned a wistful eye,

His mangled brother met his sight.


SPIRIT! arise—'tis blest to go,

When skiey visions call away;
Dust! seek the grave-there spices flow,

There gushes out Redemption's ray.

Tuou of the flaming steeds and car!

We tremble at our father's call; And, weeping, watch his flight afar,

And see the ungathered mantle fall.

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